devoid

My life feels quite devoid of meaning. I previously felt like the purpose of my life was to lose as much weight as possible and convince a man that I was worthy of marrying. Now, I sit around feeling anxious most of the day.

I’m supposed to find meaning in my life, but I struggle to even find any meaning to this minute or this hour. The pandemic has not caused this existential crisis in myself though the state of the world has certainly exacerbated my worries.

I keep saying that I’m confused, but I think I may be more lost than confused. I don’t care about anything. The sunshine seems too bright, but the nighttime seems too dreary.

I don’t really want anything, but I don’t know what else to do without consumption. I’m so used to wanting, but now I don’t want at all.

I feel so emotionally shut down when it comes to my body. I do not like the way that I look. I also do not like that I do not like the way that I look. I do not like the ways in which I was taught to demean my appearance and, even further, demean my entire worth through my appearance.

I fear that I can never like myself no matter how many self-help exercises I agree to in therapy. I fear that I will only manage to cover the gaping wound that is my self-loathing with a child-size Mickey Mouse band-aid.

I’m drowning in shallow water. I could just put my feet on the floor of the pool and stand-up straight, but the panic and lack of trust in myself is causing me to suffocate. My self-awareness is stunningly useless in this regard.

I can watch myself falling almost in slow-motion. I don’t move to catch myself or even put a cushion on the ground. I’m trying to help myself and believe that (1) I am competent enough to help myself and (2) I can worthy of the help.